Being The Change
by ReWhined
Summary: <html><head></head>Angst meme fill; possible triggers for bulimia and pro-mia views. "There was beauty in her life, but it's in the breakdown, too, and no one else seems to understand that."</html>


This is a fill for the Glee Angst Meme; original poster asked for Tina's t-shirt in 2.18 to have read 'BULIMIC', and this is a slightly more edited version of what I came up with. Triggers for bulimia, language and pro-mia views.

**Being The Change**

_i._

The magazines you buy are filled with the same images of Caucasian (_beautiful) _women, and you look at all of them, fingers stretching your eyes up and out. This is the kind of girl who is wanted. This is the kind of girl people have as their first choice, not their second, or third, or forty-seventh.

This isn't you.

_ii._

You are drawn to pretty, damaged things, things that no one else finds beautiful. You draw skulls and corpses in an A4 sketchbook you have to hide under your mattress because you know what your mother will say if she finds out what a disgusting little freak you really are, but your art teacher coos over your broken sticks and crying eyes as though you're the brightest spark in her day _(for living up to a different kind of cliché; it must be nice to meet someone so fucking vapid instead of a real artist, just to give her brain a break)_ so there's a kind of freedom here.

There's nothing but bones on the girl you're drawing now, and you find that beautiful too. You decide that when she had a face, her eyes were blue and her hair was blonde and she was the kind of girl you never were. There was beauty in her life, but it's in the breakdown, too, and no one else seems to understand that.

_(Or maybe you're just lying to yourself when you find ugly things pretty because you get to pretend that there's some sick kind of beauty left in you)._

_iii._

The first thought that goes through your head is this: _Mike knows I'm a liar._

It's stupid and irrational, because blue contacts are nowhere near the same level as a stutter, but stupid and irrational is what you do best.

You feel the weight of the moment settle in your stomach and even as you're groping for the words to make up for the lie _(that you could be beautiful, that you could be sexy, that you could be the person anyone would choose)_ and to **fix it **before you're left b-r-o-k-e-n all over again (_and maybe, T-T-Tina, you aren't worth the effort)_, you know that you'll be going straight to the vending machines when you leave. It's a cycle, a system, now. It gets you through the bad days, it works, _(and aren't you the perfect cliché, Miss Piggy, because you're all about the melodrama)_ and it does wonders for your waistline.

The next time Kurt complains about his hips, you just might recommend it to him, because God knows you need another player in your fucked up teen angst bullshit.

_iv._

A handful of Red Hots and then three doughnuts, one after the other, and the sugar and jam is smeared over your fingers. You look at them as though they don't belong to you _(yeah, you dumb slut, you'd like that if it was someone else's fault, wasn't it? Unfortunately, Miss Piggy, you're the only one with a curly tail in here) _and you slide off the toilet seat to assume your normal position, and don't let yourself stop until you see the bright red candy again.

Flush, rinse the mouth, take a breath mint and for a second, you feel better than you ever have.

_v._

You slide into the classroom at the same time as Brittany, and that's simultaneously the best and worst of all possible outcomes, as it means that Miss Pillsbury is too busy helping Brittany figure out how to spell what she wants to say to notice what you write. There's a small, uncharitable part of you which would like to throw that back in her face.

If you were braver, smarter, stronger, more like Kurt or Mercedes or Quinn or Santana or _anyone other than you_, you might have the guts to ask her what the hell kind of counsellor she even thinks she is anyway, but that's the thing, isn't it, T-T-Tina?

You aren't anyone else. No matter how much you wish you were.

That's your whole fucking problem.

_vi._

It takes three minutes and seventeen seconds precisely for you to decide which word you want to put on your t-shirt _(and you know it's a lie, Miss Piggy, because you are the cliché, the liar, the fake. You know that word is for people who are really sick, who have a problem, and the only reason the doctor let you have that as a diagnosis was because you copied everything someone else did because you're that fucking desperate to have your crappy melodrama broadcast to the world, and the second you try to-)_

You snap the elastic band on the wrist like the good little patient you aren't, and it jolts you out of your head long enough to make a snap decision. Your hands itch to stroke the inside of your wrists, to feel the little nubs of bone and nothing else, but you can still taste sugar and barf and all you really want is someone else's life.

The word you chose stays, but you really want to pay another trip to the bathroom. Anything to feel clean again.

_vii._

Mike smiles at you and you kiss him back softly.

"Ooh, minty," he murmurs against your lips and you try to smile back. It doesn't fool him in the least. "What's wrong?"

"I-", you begin and stop. "Nerves, I guess."

"About your secret?" Mike gives a playful tug on your zipper, and you stroke the front of his cardigan. "So am I, I guess. I mean, we're saying what we hated most about ourselves. That's, like, a big deal."

"And makes us easier targets," Kurt tosses over his shoulder at the pair of you. "Not that any of us would, but still, even I'm not sure I want to take my jacket off."

"We'll help," Mercedes offers, "We're all scared."

You nod, then, shaky but trusting. They understand. They'll understand when you ditch the hoodie and they can see for themselves why you're this dirty great pig, but they'll have their secrets too.

A shared vulnerability, then, because mutually assured destruction always works.

Mercedes sniffs the air and then turns and asks Mike if he has a mint. You take a Tic Tac when he offers them to you next, and try not to think of pomegranates.

_viii._

You laugh and clap along with the rest when Mr Schuester opens his shirt to tell the world that he shall no longer be afraid of his 'BUTT CHIN' despite the churning of your stomach. You're reasonably confident that you could make it all go away with one quick trip to the bathroom, but that probably defeats the purpose of wearing the stupid shirt, anyway.

Maybe you want to punch Rachel in the 'NOSE' all over again, though, because really, there are way more things you would be ashamed of if you were her. Attention whore, childish, creepy, inappropriate, _(because NONE of those words fit you, huh, T-T-Tina, crying in the bathroom with her candy because her boyfriend almost figured out what a little liar she is?) _to name but a few.

The letters on your chest feel heavier than before, and you feel your whole chest seize up with the recognition that yeah, you may well have been the only one in the room to share something genuinely disgusting. _(And even if your vanity doesn't let you believe that's because you ARE disgusting, Miss Piggy, you still weren't smart enough to figure out the same thing everyone else managed to realise! Hell, even Brittany got this, so what's your excuse?) _

No, you tell yourself, you aren't the only one, you can't be, because Mike and Mercedes and Kurt all said so, and you trusted them.

_ix._

During the dance, you're too glad to be moving and singing and not listening to your own thoughts that it doesn't even occur to you to read any of the shirts that whirl in and out of your peripheral vision, and you feel the smile right in your gut as happiness seeps into your skin. All of you, you're golden, you're magic, you're humming with electricity and there's nothing that could make you feel down again.

As the song ends, you all let out a whoop of joy and hug it out with one another, and just as you're feeling more invincible than you've ever been, Brittany brings you crashing back down to earth.

"So, you, like, used to be a hippy?"

"You're thinking of Bohemia," Rachel tells her, "Ti-"

Her voice breaks off, and that's the moment 'NOSE' has realised what your t-shirt fucking means.

Everyone's eyes are on you, and they're on you being you, not you performing as someone else, _(so how's that working for you, Miss Piggy?) _and that has never been something you've been comfortable with. You don't look at their faces, instead letting their funny little jokes seep into your consciousness for the first time since you got up on that stage. You aren't smiling now.

Nobody else is, either.

_(Because of you.)_

_x._

_(You ruined it, you stupid bitch, ruined everyone else's happy little bonding session about how awesome they all are and how perfect their lives get to be and now you're crying? Go on, cry, see if you can still fool any of them. liar, liar, pants on fire, claiming a disease when you know, you fucking know, that YOU are everything sick and disgusting and wrong in your life and the times you eat and then make yourself free of all that shit you put out into the world are the only times you ever do anything good with your life. They won't even fucking care that you're crying, who'd ever care about a pig like you?)_

_xi._

You feel your eyes begin to prickle, and before you even stop to think, you're shoving your way through the rest of the club to get to your jacket and hide again.

"Tina?" It's Mercedes that steps forward and, oh god, she made you trust her by saying stuff about a WEAVE? Mike CAN'T SING and Finn CAN'T DANCE and you're filthy, disgusting, a freak who CAN'T STOP FUCKING UP EVERYTHING SHE TOUCHES.

_(Oink, fucking oink, Miss Piggy, and don't you DARE say you didn't bring this on yourself) _

Mike pulls you into a hug, then, and you let him wrap his arms around you.

"You never- No, never mind, I'm **proud** of you." He plants a soft kiss on your forehead and you smile up at him. "I am, I'm proud you were able to say that to everyone. And I love you, ok?"

You nod.

_(Liar)_

_xii._

Mr Schuester looks more shaken than you feel, and he shoots you a tight concerned look, even as Miss Pillsbury looks guilty that she hadn't put the pieces together.

"OK, guys, we should probably leave-" _(-Tina somewhere we don't have to look at her?)_

"Oh, hell to the no, Mr Schue," Mercedes interrupts him, "We aren't done with Tina, yet."

"Mercedes-"

"She's right," Rachel starts. "I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say that we thank you for your bravery in admitting that you have suffered from such a serious disease. Eating disorders-"

That's enough. You could take Mike's pride, and Mr Schuester's worry, and Miss Pillsbury's guilt, but you will not let yourself be lectured about your fucking eating habits by Rachel Berry and her NOSE, especially when they promised that they would all understand.

"It's not a problem," you say coldly, and feel your hands scrunching into fists automatically. "No more than your nose is."

_xiii._

The room seems to give a little lurch, and for the second time in as many minutes, you can tell when you've changed everything. Kurt looks almost scared of your answer as he asks you what you mean.

"It's not- Like the **song, **it's who I am, how I was **born**." Mike's arms slip from around your waist, and you wish you could be surprised. "It's not, it's not a problem, it's just a difference, that's all, and you all said, you said not to be ashamed, we all said not to be ashamed anymore-"

You pause and take a deep, shuddery breath. A great fat tear _(look, you match)_ rolls off the end of your nose, and the others are beginning to come now, but you have to say this, to make them understand.

"We said, we said to accept, wh-who we are," you sob, choking on your words, "And that it's m-me, it's who I am, I have to, to do it so I'm not, not _filthy_, not _M-Miss Piggy_, and, and it w-works, and I f-f-feel better, now, now I don't have to hide it, because- _you said we shouldn't be ashamed!" _

Mr Schuester takes a step forward then, and tries to squeeze your shoulder but you aren't having any of it. "Tina, to say you're bulimic means to say that you're **ill**. And there's nothing wrong with being ill as long as we get better. It'll be ok."

_(Liar.)_

"Liar!" Your fist lashes out wildly at his stupid comforting arm, and your voice rises to a shriek. "I'm not ill! You said not to be ashamed! You said there wasn't anything wrong with any of us! I'm fine, I'm normal, I just eat _differently,_ like a vegetarian or something, and what's wrong- what's _wrong, _what's _sick_, about not wanting to be _fat, _and _disgusting_, and, and _a liar_ and like _me_, and, and _stupid_ and a _screw-up_ and-"

Mike, your Mike, who promised you more than you had any right to expect from him looks terrified. You can see the same words written all over their faces, telling themselves you're sick and wrong and disgusting, and they're right for all the wrong reasons, and they're so caught up in all their own lies that stop them from seeing the truth.

"Tina, you aren't any-"

"_Liar, liar, liar!" _It may well just be the pigtails, but you're in the midst of a full-blown temper tantrum and because it fits, you stomp your feet as well. You turn on everyone else, then, none of them brave or stupid enough to challenge you like this, but your voice cracks and falls into a whisper.

"We all promised to accept each other," you whisper, your voice husky with bitterness. "You said you'd understand."

_(They won't.)_

_xiv._

It's easier to run, and so you begin the same walk home you always take and try not to think about the bullshit they have to be telling one another so they can keep telling themselves that you're the one with the problem when they're the liars. After fifteen minutes, your phone begins to buzz, and you turn it off without looking to see who was calling you. Instead, you stop by Ian's General Store and grab three bags of ready-made popcorn, knowing that this is a bad one, even by your standards.

You take the phone from its nest downstairs and take it into your bedroom, switch the lock on the door, and have demolished the first bag by the time your mom knocks on your door and asks how Glee rehearsal went.

"Great," you call back, tipping the bag upside down to get the last of the crumbs, "Everything's great."

It's three days before you go to school again, and although you couldn't keep hiding all the phones from your parents, you tell them that you and Mike had an argument about your future and you need some time to sort through your feelings. It was a good excuse, one which immediately had your father threatening to have words with Mike if he thought he was too good for you and your mother saying that you should focus on your education rather than silly boys who didn't know how perfect you were.

_(Seems like you aren't the only liar in the family, T-T-Tina)._

_xv._

Through some creative navigation of the hallways, and outright changing your seat in some classes, you manage to avoid being in conversation with another member of Glee until lunch, when Mike comes up behind you as you debate the merits of pizza or pasta. His arm slides around your waist and you want to ask him if he finds whales attractive, but you lean into him and let yourself sniff his clothes. It smells like him, all soapy and grassy, and you've really missed him.

"I love you," he mutters into your hair, and he looks so sad and lost that you wish, for a second, you'd never met him, never had the chance to ruin him.

_(Too fucking late, Miss Piggy, you already hurt him, and if he's not lying then he's even more stupid than anyone dating you would have to be.)_

"I love you, Mike," you whisper, and you're almost certain that it's true. "I'm sorry I upset you."

He smells like Mike but the laugh he gives then doesn't sound a thing like him. It's harsh and clipped, like he's laughing at something he doesn't find funny at all.

"Get the pizza," he tells you. "And we're all eating together. Everyone missed you."

_(Liar.)_

_xvi._

Everyone stares at your tray – pizza, cake and a can of Diet Coke – and then up at you. Everyone, for once, includes Quinn but, less surprisingly, does not include Santana, and they are sitting with their lunch in front of them. You let Mike slide onto the bench before taking a seat at the end of table, ready to leave if they start trying to make you buy into their disease bullshit again.

"Hey, girl," Mercedes says, reaching across the table to put a hand on your arm. "It's, ah, it's good to see you eating stuff. I mean, not that, you know, I just... I was worried."

"And you **shouldn't** be." There's more intensity to you now than there was in your little fit on the stage, but it's measured, controlled. "There's nothing wrong with what I do, and it was really hurtful for you all to act like there is. Especially when we all said that we were sharing things we used to be ashamed of, we used to think were bad. You were all really out of line."

Mike doesn't say anything, but he pulls you into the tightest hug he's ever given you. It takes you a second to realise that the little snuffling noises he's making into your shirt are because he's crying.

_(Because of you.)_

"It's ok, it's ok," you tell him, holding him back. It's an awkward angle and people at other tables are starting to look around, but more than anything, you just want them to understand or else just go back to normal. "It's ok, I forgive you, I love you..."

Mike makes that harsh little not-quite laugh again, but doesn't pull away. Lauren practically jumps to her feet and snatches her bag.

"This is bullshit," she tells the table, looking at everyone but you. "I can't do this."

She storms away and Puck gives a little apologetic shrug – or as close to an apologetic anything as you think anyone's ever seen from Puck – and goes after her. Your table goes quiet and Mike takes his arms back, embarrassed, and begins to eat. You see Quinn elbow Finn sharply in the side to make him pick up his sandwich and start eating it, but even as everyone else makes a show of tucking into their meals, you can see them all checking to make sure they know what Miss Piggy's up to.

_xvii._

What Miss Piggy is up to is no different from the same routine they know. You rummage through your bag and remove a bottle of water and a small Tupperware pot containing a single kiwi. This, you eat first, taking small sips of water as you go, and Brittany's the only one to break the silence by telling you she didn't know that Asia was in Hispania. There are so many things wrong with that sentence that by the time the table has managed to find the source of the confusion, Bolivia and Bulimia, you're all talking like you normally are at lunch.

The pizza goes next, and you eat it in small, slow bites, chewing each piece forty times before you swallow and sipping Diet Coke or water in between each bite, before the cake goes down in exactly the same way. Mike gives you a great beaming smile and you ask what congratulatory song Rachel is going to force you all to sing because you've mastered the art of eating lunch.

You were only joking about the singing, but everyone's smiles are making that seem a dangerous possibility, and Kurt gives you a tiny smattering of applause.

_xviii._

There's a lot of stuff you could tell them. About your good friend Mia, and how she isn't anything like her friend Ana, even though they both work at the same thing. And how they shouldn't knock it before they try it, and that if they only would, it'd be so much better. Mike would stop worrying about bulking up for football, and Finn wouldn't worry about losing weight for basketball, and Rachel would probably still be annoying but she would also stop stopping you from doing the only thing that's ever fucking worked to keep you happy which you figure is definitely a plus.

_(If it were easy, everyone would be thin. Some people just aren't strong enough to stick it out.)_

You let Mike walk you to class, then double back as soon as he's turned the corner to go to the bathroom. The green kiwi fruit serves as your marker to let you know when you can stop, and some water and a stick of gum leaves you better than ever.

Oink, oink.


End file.
